Penumbra 2- Birds in Flight
by A. Farnese
Summary: As the weeks go by, Arthur regrets his decision more and more, but is it too late to go back and fix his mistakes? Can he recover what's been lost? AU Sequel to 'This House of Bones'.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Story two for you, since I survived the weekend! _

* * *

"Sister?"

Morgana stirred, the soft question dragging her out of dreams. Gentle fingers brushed her face, tucking strands of unruly hair behind her ears. In the restful state between sleep and wakefulness, Morgana pretended that she was a child again, and that those fingers belonged to her mother. The illusion did not last for long, though, and she mourned her mother's loss again, letting her sister's blurred visage comfort her. "Morgana?" Morgause asked.

"I'm all right," she smiled faintly, despite her aching head. She snuggled deeper into the down pillows at her back and soaked in the warmth of the blankets. The candles had burned low in their mother's chambers, shrouding them in shadows. Morgause fairly glowed in the thin light, her hair a tumbled sheet of pale gold framing her too-pale face.

"You will be, anyway," the priestess lowered herself to the bed next to her sister, "With time. What happened, dear sister? You've been asleep nearly two days." Morgause's hand rested on her forehead, checking for fever before she clasped Morgana's hand, her thumb tracing lazy circles on her wrist.

"I failed," her wavering voice betrayed a half dozen emotions at once- anger and betrayal among them. "All of Ruadan's men are dead, and Arthur's entire company survived with hardly a scratch."

Morgause's fingers tightened around Morgana's. "But how? How was Arthur able to stand against you? We had it planned so well . . ."

"Arthur wasn't able to stand against us. Arthur should have died." Morgana sat up, her eyes unfocused as she searched through her memories of the ill-fated attack. "My brother was not the one who thwarted us. It was Merlin. He has magic, Morgause. Powerful magic. It was he who defeated Ruadan's men, and it was he who cast me away. I don't know where I would have ended up if you hadn't been so close to my thoughts."

"Merlin," Morgause whispered, her good eye narrowing, "I had always wondered about him, about what made him so loyal to Arthur."

"He has betrayed us. And all our kind." Morgana clutched at the blankets, as though mentally throttling the ragged serving boy. "He knew about my visions and my magic from the beginning. He knew how terrified I was. He could have helped me, and he left me to stumble about on my own. I was so alone, Morgause, so terribly alone in those days, and I didn't have to be." She dashed the tears from her eyes, ashamed at her weakness. "Merlin could have helped me, but he abandoned me. He poisoned me! All for _Arthur's_ sake. Why? He was so powerful that night. How could he have such powerful magic and still favor Arthur over his own kind?"

"Hush, sister, you'll wear yourself out." Morgause gently pressed her sister to lie back against the pillows and tucked the blankets around her again. "I had always wondered about that boy. I asked him once, why he was so loyal to Arthur. He said he believed the Pendragon would bring about some golden age of Camelot. Foolishness, all of it. But wisdom does not always follow power."

"I want him dead," Morgana glowered up at her sister.

"Patience, Morgana," Morgause delicately scolded, "As a High Priestess, you must learn to cultivate patience. We shall have our vengeance against Merlin- and Arthur- but we must make sure all things move in our favor before we act. If we act rashly, we could lose everything."

"We've already lost nearly everything. Our mother is long dead, and Gorlois before her. Half the five kingdoms would burn us for our magic, and the other half would drive us away. Tintagel was nearly in ruins when we came back to it. The Isle of the Blessed _is_ in ruins, and our people are hunted down and murdered. We have little enough to lose." Morgana pulled a hand free and traced her sister's cheek, cupping the ruined half of Morgause's face in her palm. "Promise you won't leave me, Morgause? You're all I have left." The pale-eyed priestess suddenly looked very young, and very afraid

Morgause leaned into her sister's touch, a smile gracing her once-beautiful face. She wound her cool fingers around Morgana's and kissed them. "I will not leave you, my sweet sister. Not if I can help it. Now," she pulled herself to her feet, her stiffened joints cracking with the movement, "I will have some food brought to you, then you must rest. We meet with Rheged's envoy tomorrow, and you must be at your best."

"Which son did Urien send?" Morgana settled back and drew the blankets up around her shoulders, her eyes already heavy with sleep.

"The younger one. Accolon. He is loath to let the elder boy out of his sight, given what happened to Cenred."

Morgana smirked. "He should be pleased that his nephew died without leaving an heir. It earned him a kingdom, and he has two sons to pass it on to."

"Urien is not Cenred," Morgause cautioned her, "Cenred was an arrogant man with a head full of lust. He was easy to tempt and easy to lead about. Men like that are happy to fall in line with a beautiful woman's requests. Accolon may be the second son, but he is young and he speaks with his father's voice. Any agreement he signs will have the full force of the Kingdom of Rheged behind it, which is why we must be at our best tomorrow. This is the first step toward a bright future for us."

"And what about Merlin?"

"I will consider what to do with Merlin. For now, you need to regain your strength. We've a long few days ahead, and neither of us can afford to show any weakness. We may be Priestesses- powerful in our own right, with a contingent of Ruadan's sorcerer-warriors at our disposal, but we are still weak. The Isle of the Blessed was well armed against an army, and it fell. All that needs to happen to spell our doom is for Rheged to reject us and make an alliance with Camelot."

"I won't allow that," Morgana said confidently. "I remember well enough how to charm a man. Gaining this Accolon's affections will be easy."

"Indeed," Morgause rasped, smiling, "Our mother was one of the great beauties of the Five Kingdoms in her youth. You could pass for her twin, sister. All you will need to do to wrap him around your finger is to keep your temper in check and keep a smile on your face. Once you've molded him to your liking, our alliance will be set in stone. We will be one step closer to returning you to your throne."

Morgana snuggled back against the pillows, a tired but radiant smile spreading across her face. "That will be a glorious day."

"Indeed," Morgause returned the smile as well as her scarred face would allow, "It will be glorious. But for now, rest. Recover. We have plenty of time to plan our vengeance."


	2. Chapter 1

The forest sang around him, the air humming with the chirruping of crickets and the deep thrumming of frogs, while overhead Merlin heard the soft flutter of downy owl feathers as one winged by, inches above him. Fireflies shimmered thickly in the underbrush and above all of it, the wheel of stars glittered in the velvet night. Merlin drank it all in. Flat on his back on a log, his head resting in his interlaced hands, he blended with the night as easily as the little fox poking its nose out of a hazel thicket. He was as much a part of the forest as the Camelot patrol was not. A handful of knights around a fire- joking and laughing and otherwise making enough of a racket to be heard a mile off- all of them less than fifty feet away, Lancelot and Gwaine among them.

As peaceful as the forest night was, it was lonely with only the birds and foxes as his companions. Through the past weeks, he had traveled to most of the outlying villages, and while the people were glad to see him and his healing skills, he never could stay for more than a few days. A man could keep his name to himself for only so long, and he never felt right using a false name. So he would stay in a village for a day or three and then move on. The people were kind and their children were charming, but having to learn new faces time after time was wearing thin. Companionship needed more than a simple 'hello', and in his wanderings, he'd had precious little of it.

He missed it. Missed it like a blinded man missed candlelight- the easy camaraderie they all shared around campfires. The cooking and dishwashing he was happy to be done with, but the rest. . . The rest of it he missed. He missed the knights' gentle teasing and the brotherhood they had shared. Most of all he missed Arthur. There was no replacing the golden-haired, noble-hearted, dollophead of a prince- despite all the chores and the never-ending volley of household items Arthur liked to chuck at his servant's head. Right then, Merlin would be happy to feel the thud of a tin water cup knock against his skull. It would mean that Arthur had welcomed him back to Camelot and he would be one step closer to that naive, foolish dream of magic returning to the kingdom . . .

Gwaine's voice rose in mock outrage, followed by raucous laughter. Merlin smiled. If he could not be among them, then at least he could be nearby, overhear them, and laugh with them. And protect them, if he needed to.

He had lost so much in the weeks since Arthur exiled him, though it was not to say that he had gained nothing. Far from it. Wandering through the forests and along the endless winding paths gave him ample time to practice his art, learn the subtleties of the rain, the kenning of wolves, and the simple geometry of birds in flight. He could push people's attention away from himself to walk unseen through a crowded village, and simple conjuring tricks charmed children and crones alike earning him enough goodwill and trust to earn a free night's lodging. Even a haggard farmwife smiled when he pulled a daisy from his sleeve and presented it to her as though she were a blushing princess. Healing, illusion, scrying- all if it had grown easier, his power never more than a breath away under the eaves of the forest.

Then there were the falcons.

He should have suspected the ravens of being Morgana's agents. Things between him and Arthur would have gone so differently if he had figured out that trick earlier, instead of discovering accidentally one fine afternoon while navigating the woods with his mind's eye wide open. One raven had looked _wrong_, it feathers fairly soaking in light and magic alike, its dark purpose obvious to him in that state.

It died with a word, and Merlin had set about creating a flock of his own spies from the falcons and owls of the forest, taking inspiration from his own name and learning to understand them, after a fashion, and to see through their eyes.

They were all too happy to hunt down ravens; the dark birds' harsh cries had grown scarce of late. Morgana must have wondered where all her winged servants had gone. He hoped it caused her endless frustration when the great High Priestess of the Morrigan could find neither them nor him, her great adversary, no matter how hard she looked. Only her first scrying attempt had been successful, brushing against his consciousness like moths against a windowpane. Merlin wished her luck in finding him. One patch of forest looked like most others unless one lived there, and Morgana did not. He had brushed her successive attempts away like the cobwebs they were.

An owl landed on a branch above his head. The little creature always looked surprised and rarely had information, but unlike the other birds he had charmed, the little owl seemed to enjoy his company. He sat up and scratched the bird's neck. It shivered and squeaked with pleasure, pulling a soft chuckle from Merlin, "You are getting spoiled, bird," he chided it, then slipped off the log and padded, cat-like, toward the knights' horses.

The campfire had grown dim as the knights set up a watch and settled down for the night. The little herd of horses had grown quiet as well, and the one he was looking for would hardly fuss if Merlin unstaked the lines and led it away. Lancelot's white courser knew Merlin too well to complain about his appearance, and horses were not bothered by orders of banishment.

He patted the sleepy horse lightly on the shoulder and it responded with a happy nicker as it nosed about his pockets where he usually had a treat or two hidden. "Sorry, friend. Nothing for you tonight. Just stand still for a bit." He fished a bit of folded cloth out of his bag and pulled out the feather stored there, brushing it back into its proper shape before he quickly braided it into a lock of the horse's mane.

Yes, Arthur had banished him from Camelot, but he had rarely done as he was told while he had been in the prince's service. Why would he start now? There was a destiny to fulfill, after all, and in the meantime, his friends likely wondered what had become of him. With a merlin's tail feather bound up in his horse's mane, well. . . Lancelot was clever. He would know who put it there, and maybe he would tell the others. Or maybe he would not. As long as someone from Camelot remembered him, it would do.

The horses shuffled and nickered as he moved between them. Not all the herd was as comfortable with him as Lancelot's horse had been, though, and their unease summoned one of the knights. Merlin hopped up to a low oak branch, casting his 'you can't see me' spell to wait him out.

Gwaine appeared between the trees. For a moment, Merlin was tempted to drop the spell and let Gwaine see him. The desire to talk to a friend, if only for a few minutes, was nearly overwhelming. But not all the knights in the patrol would let Merlin's presence go unremarked, so he held his tongue.

"Hey, now. What are you all in a huff about, huh?" Gwaine patted his own horse on the shoulder as he looked around, peering into every dark spot but the one Merlin crouched in. "There's nothing out there. You're just jumping at shadows. Again." He chuckled and checked the lines before heading back to the camp.

Merlin stayed still until the knight disappeared into the trees again. '_Aye. Nothing here but shadows. And one warlock who has always lived in them.' _


	3. Chapter 2

"Where is your shadow, Arthur Pendragon?"

Arthur looked up at the sound of the door shutting behind a familiar face. "Sir Lucan! As I live and breathe," He grinned and rose to meet the weathered knight, "I didn't think I'd ever see you at court again." After serving as Arthur's first weapons master, Lucan had ranged along Camelot's borders, sending back information and rumors of the neighboring kingdoms, but hardly returning himself. In the seven years since his last visit, Lucan had hardly changed. He was still weather-beaten with dark hair dusted with frost, his armor of boiled leather rather than chain or plate mail, his eyes still gray and sharp. The Shadow Knight, he was called. Uther had disliked him from the first, but as a nobleman's son- even if only a third son- who had earned his knighthood, the king could not refuse him the title, ultimately choosing to send him to the hinterlands to serve rather than continue to see him at court. The placement suited both men. "What brings you back to civilization?"

"Strange goings-on in Rheged. And Tintagel. Gorlois's fortress may look abandoned, but there are certainly people living there. People who don't want to be noticed," Lucan said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the prince. "You've changed a mite bit since last I was here, but growing into manhood doesn't put dark circles under your eyes, Arthur."

Arthur grimaced, but brushed away the mention of his haggard appearance. "My shadow?"

"Aye. They say you had a servant who helped you get your head on straight. A waif of a lad who followed you everywhere," Lucan glanced around as though the aforementioned waif might appear suddenly from behind one of the great hall's pillars.

"And who tells you that?"

"If I told you it was the wind and the rain, would you believe it?" the old knight smirked, "Troubadours and other knights on patrol. Your knights gossip like old farm wives and, to a one, the singers are in love with the sound of their own voices. You've only to listen to one for an hour to know everything that's going on in the Five Kingdoms. And you've not answered my question. Where has your shadow gone?" "

Arthur's smile felt more like a grimace. "His name was Merlin, and he is no longer in my service. We had a. . . a falling out," he answered. '_I banished him for keeping a truth from me to save his own life.' _He shoved that thought aside. "What news is there from Rheged, then?"

Lucan leveled his hawk's gaze at the prince for a few, suspicious moments. "Rumor has it," he said at last, "That King Urien got his son betrothed to some mysterious beauty from the south. No one's sure who."

Arthur's gaze flicked to a map of the Five Kingdoms spread out across the table. "You mean Owain? If that were so, why wouldn't Urien send the news out the same day? Surely he would want to celebrate a new alliance."

"Not Owain. The younger one. Accolon. No one knows who the lady is, but I've a bad feeling about it," Lucan said.

"Keep your ears to the ground, then, and inform me if you hear of anything else. In the meantime, you're welcome to dine with us tonight."

"I'll keep my ears open and thank you for the invitation, but I should see my brothers first. I came here to make my reports first. Haven't seen them yet, and if I don't I'll never hear the end of it," the knight replied. Arthur could believe it, the way Lucan's eldest brother had barked about returning him to court after the prince became the regent.

"I understand. Sometime soon, then. Surely you have more to talk about than Rheged and how much my knights gossip," he clasped Lucan's arm and bid him farewell, receiving a smirk and a nod in return. After the knight had gone, Arthur returned to his work, glancing up at the quiet shuffle of feet to see George returning to his unobtrusive spot by a pillar. No doubt, the man had refilled the wine glass or tidied the papers. No one could doubt his efficiency. '_But he's not Merlin.'_

George was a perfectly competent servant. Better than that, in fact. He was probably the best servant in Camelot when it came to performing a servant's duties. Arthur's meals were never late, his papers never out of order, the bathwater was always the perfect temperature, and his clothes always perfectly laundered. Every task Arthur gave the man was fulfilled to the letter. But when asked his opinion, George always deferred to Arthur's judgment, never gave advice, never told him when he was being an idiot, and he never made the prince laugh.

Unlike Merlin, George knew his place. He knew it all too well. George would never face a dragon with him, would never stare Arthur down when the he was being unreasonable, or left an apple as a paperweight to tide him over until morning. George never forgot his responsibilities as a servant, while Merlin never let Arthur forget his responsibilities as a prince. It was a distinction he had learned too late.

'_At least Guinevere is speaking to me again. And Gwaine.'_ Guinevere had given him the silent treatment for a week; Gwaine for a month, along with a few anger-fueled thrashings on the practice field. Arthur felt like he deserved every bruise he got, each twinge a reminder not to act rashly. Sighing, he looked back through the letter he had been writing before Lucan came in, scowling at the misspelling of a simple word. One stupid little mistake to add to the list, starting with the greatest one he had made when he sent Merlin away.


	4. Chapter 3

'_Why must I always move about at night?'_ Merlin wondered as he slipped through the hallways of the great citadel of Camelot, carefully pushing away the attention of any who might happen to be about in the small hours of the morning. Thus far, he had only encountered a handful of guards and a few servants, walking behind them with practiced ease. Even without his magic, he likely could have avoided their notice; after years of serving Arthur, he had learned to be unobtrusive when necessary. _Hear everything and say nothing. _It had been one of the first rules of being a prince's manservant, followed closely by _know when to remain silent_. Admittedly, Merlin had trouble with that one, but Arthur had rarely seemed to mind.

Arthur. Merlin grinned. The dollophead's chambers were just ahead, guarded only by a pair of sentries at the end of the hallway. Easy enough to distract them and steal into the rooms. Phantom noises, a few seconds, a quick thanks to whatever god of good fortune was watching over the warlock that the guards did not have dogs with them. Men were easy to trick with a spell. Animals, less so. Dogs, birds, horses- and cats especially- saw right through his invisibility. But the guards had no dogs, and it was a moment's work to get through the door, closing it carefully behind him.

It seemed Merlin's replacement was an efficient man. The chambers were immaculate; not a speck of dust on the candlesticks, no orphaned socks littering the floor under the bed, nothing out of place. Nothing to show any sort of character. They may as well have been guest chambers, as lived-in as they looked. Yet Arthur was there in his bed, tangled up in blankets, asleep with one arm flung off the side of the bed. Merlin chuckled as he straightened the covers back over the prince and gently folded Arthur's arm back over his chest. He would complain endlessly if he woke up to a numb hand.

Arthur mumbled something unintelligible, his eyelids fluttering as though he were about to wake. Merlin retreated into the shadows, wrapping them around himself, just in case, but the prince's stirrings ceased, his breathing easing back into regular sleep. _'That would have been awkward,'_ Merlin could not help but grin as he crossed to the desk where another stack of paperwork waited. The efficient servant's mark was there, too. The inkwell and quill were in perfect alignment with the edge of the desk, but just out of easy reach of Arthur's hand. A mark for the arrangement, and two off for being inconvenient, he decided as he moved the items to their proper positions and replaced the gilded- if ugly- paperweight with an apple.

He glided toward the cupboard where Arthur's comb and razor were stored, hoping that the servant was not quite efficient enough. He would rather not have to clip hair directly from Arthur's head, but if need be. . . To the warlock's relief, though, the servant was efficient in everything but cleaning all the hair from Arthur's comb, something that Merlin was always sure to do, though not for reasons of cleanliness.

Binding a long-lasting spell to a person required the use of some bit of him, whether it was a hair, some piece of jewelry he always wore, or -if the spell was especially powerful- a drop of blood. While Merlin always made sure to burn the bits of hair left behind in combs, he could hardly blame his replacement for not knowing better. He pulled half a dozen of the golden hairs from the comb and folded them into a cloth that he carefully tucked into a pocket before putting everything away, closing the cupboard door with a faint _click_. Arthur slept through it all.

With a breath, Merlin let his awareness press out against the room, searching for the wards he had set up the last time he had been here, before his exile. Wards against dark magics, scrying, and a host of other intrigues Morgana might seek to lay upon the prince while he was asleep and vulnerable. The wards were weak, but still stood. It was the work of a few minutes to bolster them, strengthening them more than he usually did, the way a farmer might shutter his windows against a long winter. When the task was finished, Merlin glanced outside. He wanted to slip up to Gaius's chambers and reassure himself of his mentor's good health, but there was no time. Already, gray dawn touched the horizon, and Merlin needed to be deep into the forest by the time the sun was up.

With a final glance back at his prince, Merlin slipped out of the chambers and wound his way out of the city, leaving little more than a passing shadow to reveal his presence.


	5. Chapter 4

Arthur staggered back at the force of the blow, his eyes reflexively closing as splinters of wood flew toward his face. He sidestepped the next blow and caught the one after with his own sword, using the force of it to propel him around his opponent. He reversed his grip on the blade, thrusting it backwards with a quick shot to the kidneys. The blow was met with a groan of frustration from Percival as he tossed his blunted practice sword to the ground.

"That was neatly done, Arthur," Sir Lucan called from the edge of the field, "But you could have finished the same and kept your shield if you held it thusly." The older knight trotted toward them, shield and blade in hand to demonstrate how the prince had gone wrong and how to do it right next time. Three more tries and he had it done to Lucan's satisfaction and Percival's relief. "That'll do for now. Once you stop dropping your forward edge, you just might have it," Lucan gave him a wolfish grin, "Now be off and get some water. This heat is like to dry us all out by noon."

"Yes, sir," Arthur replied, a long-suffering grin on his face as he shared a knowing look with Leon. The blond knight had trained under Lucan as well, and was familiar with the man's abrupt manner and backhanded praise. "I trust I didn't bruise you too badly?" Arthur asked as he handed the water barrel's ladle to Percival.

"No," the big man grinned, "A mule kicked me in the back about ten years ago. Now that hurt. Turned me all sorts of colors for a good month. This was nothing. You have to expect a few little hits when you're training, right?"

"Little?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. He had not been aiming to kill, but he hardly pulled his blows, either. Percival responded with a shrug and another broad smile. Arthur shook his head and let it go, turning his attention to the field where Lucan sparred with Gwaine. Though he had deigned to speak to Arthur again in the past few weeks, his normal teasing had gone, replaced by angry remarks intended to cut to the quick. Arthur did his best to let them roll off his back. "Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

"Who, Gwaine?" Arthur nodded. "Hard to say. Merlin was- is- a good friend, and he doesn't have many of those, so he's loyal to the few he has. Your sending Merlin away hurt him. A lot. Men like Gwaine, they don't forgive quickly. Give him some time. He hasn't left yet, so he's not going to turn on you. He just needs the space to let the hurt heal."

Arthur took a sip of water and watched the two knights on the field, taking his time to absorb Percival's words. Some might assume than an abundance of brawn meant an absence of brains, or that the big knight's plain speech showed a lack of sense, but Arthur knew better. Percival might be a quiet man, but quiet men were often watchful men who saw into the heart of a matter. "It's been almost two months."

"Some hurts take longer to heal. He'll be all right. Just. . . be patient," Percival clapped Arthur on the shoulder, giving him one last grin before crossing back to the other knights before Lucan and Gwaine tore at each other again. Arthur watched them, wondering how long it would be before Lucan's cool temper threw enough water on Gwaine's anger to calm the man down. Leon had assured the prince that they would not let Gwaine destroy himself, but watching them spar, Arthur was not so sure of it. Anger always bubbled under Gwaine's rakish exterior; he used it like fuel for a fire, stoking the flames just enough during a fight to stay one cut ahead of his enemies. In the past few weeks, his control had been slipping. Arthur hoped Lucan could set the man aright, before they faced a real battlefield and Gwaine got himself killed for lack of control.

Of course, in the weeks since Merlin's banishment, many things had changed. Lancelot grew ever more formal in his dealings with the prince, and when he was not engaged in some thought-consuming task, an abiding sadness lived in Gaius's eyes. For his own part, Arthur had trouble sleeping, his dreams plagued with the imaginings of Merlin joining with Morgana and tearing Camelot to pieces with Arthur unable to stop them. Then there was the one a few nights earlier, when he would have sworn that Merlin was there in the room with him. He had dismissed the notion as ridiculous until he saw the apple sitting atop his papers, though neither servants nor guards would admit to seeing anything out of the ordinary.

Arthur sighed and flicked away the beads of sweat making his nose itch, reaching over for another drink of water. There was a blast of feathers against his face. A weight struck his arm, clawing through the gloves and chainmail to dig furrows into his wrist. He staggered backward, biting back the cry that threatened to burst out. He checked his balance and held his arm away, blinking away the shock to find a little falcon perched on his arm. Its wings stretched halfway out as it wavered. Arthur held still, holding his breath, until the bird steadied itself. It stared back at him, wild eyes keen and bright, giving the prince the sense that there was little keeping it from either flying away or tearing at his eyes.

The commotion had not gone unnoticed. "Falconry's a girl's sport, Princess," Gwaine called out, "Should suit you just fine."

Arthur threw the knight a half-amused look while he tried to dislodge the bird from his arm. It spread its wings again and dug its talons tighter.

"Perhaps if you weren't standing still, Arthur, you wouldn't end up as a scarecrow," Lucan said, his eyes full of mirth as he approached. The rest of the knights followed.

"I may not know everything about birds, Sir Lucan, but I'm certain this is not a crow. And unless you can send it away without shredding my arm further, I seem to be stuck with it," he said. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and soaked into his sleeve.

"It's a wild creature. It's not going to do what you tell it to," Lucan said, though he stretched out a hand toward the bird. It tensed, its sharp beak opening, ready to snap at unwary fingers. The older knight pulled his hand back, mocking a gesture of surrender. "It looks like you're stuck with it until it decides to leave. I'm not losing a finger over it."

Arthur glanced across the knights gathered around him, noting the amused expressions on their faces. He doubted such mirth was on his own face. "If anyone knows why a wild falcon just landed on my arm, shredded it, and now refuses to leave, I would like to hear it. And if you have any suggestions as to making it go away, I'd like to hear them, too."

"I might have a guess, Sire, though it's just a guess," Lancelot spoke up.

"Go on, then. Don't leave us in suspense."

"It's just that- the bird is a merlin," a now-rare smile lit up the dark-eyed knight's features, "And we all know that merlins never do as they're told."


	6. Chapter 5

"Gaius?" Arthur pushed the physician's door open, wincing when he accidentally brushed his injured arm against the latch. It had taken a while, but they finally coaxed the merlin off his arm. Instead of flying back to the forest where such a wild creature belonged, it flew straight for Arthur's window and perched on the ledge. He had seen it there when he went up to change out of his bloodied tunic, a little gray sentinel guarding his window against- what? Crows and pigeons?

He shook his head and looked about the room. Though candles were lit in the sconces, the physician was not there. He decided to wait, letting his feet choose his path through the room, wandering past the table and the potion bottle-covered workbench. His shoulder accidentally brushed a bundle of herbs hung up to dry. The pollen dusted his face and made him sneeze as the dust caught in his nose. He raised a hand to stop the bundle in its swinging and left the working space, heading up the steps before he realized where he was going.

Gaius had not changed a thing in Merlin's room. The narrow bed was still made up and ready for someone to sleep in it. The side table held its candle, both free of dust. Drawings of herbs were still pinned to the wall under the window, their corners curling from neglect. Arthur brushed a finger over one to flatten the parchment, though the corners failed keep the shape he gave them. _'Even his drawings won't do what I tell them to do,' _he mused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he regarded the other parchments tacked up. It never occurred to him, when Merlin was first hired, how strange it was that a peasant from a village in the middle of nowhere should know how to read and write, or that said peasant should have such a fair hand. Merlin's handwriting was understated and precise, clear and almost delicate without being florid, as many a scribe's writing was. '_The writing mirrors the man,' _he thought.

In the main room, the door squeaked faintly on its hinges. "Is someone there?" Gaius called.

Arthur peered through Merlin's door "Sorry, Gaius. You weren't here when I arrived."

A faint smile passed over the physician's face when he saw where Arthur had chosen to wait. "Ah. I've just been to see your father. He seems to be doing somewhat better, though it's still difficult to get his attention." The prince nodded. A slight change, but hardly different from the past few months. Arthur returned to the main room "Is there something I can do for you?" Gaius asked.

"My arm," the prince replied, holding up his arm to show where the merlin's talons had torn into the flesh of his wrist. "This bird landed on my arm in the middle of our training session and wouldn't let go. It broke through my glove and. . . " he shrugged and sat down at the table so Gaius could better see it.

"A bird from the royal mews?" Gaius lit the candles and took the prince's arm in both his hands.

"No, a wild one. No one knows why it decided to land on me, or why it wouldn't leave, but," Arthur shook his head, wincing when the physician poked at the cuts, "I don't know. It was a wild bird, it landed on my arm, and now it's perched on the ledge outside my window."

Gaius chuckled as he rose to collect the salves, potions, and bandages he needed, "If I didn't know any better, I would say that it sounds like the bird was enchanted, Arthur."

Arthur opened his mouth, disbelieving for a moment that an animal could be ensorcelled before remembering that once, Morgause had once cast a spell on his own horse in order to lead him to her. "But why a bird? Especially a tercel like that one was? It was just a little thing."

"It's hard to say, but birds are often used for various tasks," Gaius dribbled a potion over Arthur's arm. It had a bright, astringent scent to it and made the cuts sting enough to make his eyes water. "In the days of the Old Religion, the High Priestesses used enchanted ravens to carry messages or even spells. They made very efficient spies. If I knew what sort of falcon this was, I might know better what its purpose was." The gashes cleaned, Gaius daubed a pale salve onto them before wrapping them with finely woven linen bandages.

"It, uh. . . " Arthur bit his lip, remembering the odd flashes of hope in Lancelot and Gwaine's eyes when it was pointed out what particular bird it was, "It was a merlin."

Gaius stopped mid-gesture, an eyebrow rising, "Really?" The physician blinked twice, took a breath, and went back to wrapping the prince's wrist. "That _would _amuse him," he said softly, almost to himself.

"So you think Merlin would have sent it?"

"It's certainly within his capabilities. But if the bird has been bound to you, as it seems it may have been- if it went straight to you and refused to be chased away, despite being wild, then Merlin would need something of you- a hair or a drop of blood in order to complete the binding."

"Um," Arthur frowned, remembering what he had thought was a dream, "A few nights ago, I thought I dreamed that Merlin was here in Camelot. In my chambers, actually. It was a bit. . . odd, really. I thought I was imagining things until I saw an apple left on my desk. Merlin always did that. George never does. But none of the guards said they saw anything at all."

A new light shone in the old healer's eyes. "Being able to walk unseen is not outside the realm of possibility, Arthur. Especially not for someone with Merlin's talents," he chuckled as he finished wrapping the prince's wrist. "An especially quiet servant can go about the palace while hardly being seen without the slightest bit of magic. No one notices servants. Given the circumstances, though, I am sure that if Merlin had been here, he would have used magic of some kind."

Arthur was quiet as he mulled over this new information. "Tell me. . . Tell me about magic, Gaius," he finally looked up, spearing the physician with an unwavering gaze. "All my life, I have heard about the evils of magic and how those who use it want only to destroy Camelot, but surely there's another side to the matter. Merlin had many opportunities to kill me- and my father- since he came here. That night in the forest, when Morgana attacked us, he could have just let us all die. Instead, he gave himself up to protect us. Come to that," he paused, his fingers brushing the lines of the bandages, "If all sorcerers were evil, then why has Merlin not joined Morgana? Or do you not think that's where he went when he left?"

A wry smile spread across the physician's face. "You have no need to worry about Merlin joining Morgana. He tried to help her when her powers first blossomed, but once she started turning against you, he opposed her at every turn. It was a path that cost him dearly." Gaius looked away for a moment as shadows passed across his eyes. "But I doubt he would change a thing, so long as you were safe."

"Tell me, then. What part of this has no one ever bothered to tell me? I need to know, Gaius. How can I make a good decision without the proper information?"

"That is something I am very glad to hear from you, Arthur. But this is a long tale, and I could use some tea before we begin." Gaius rose before the prince could object, shuffling around the room and gathering up this bit of leaf and that before setting a kettle of water to boil over the fire. "Now then," he said a few minutes later, putting two steaming mugs down, "Magic is . . . Well, it's as much a part of the world as the wind is, and like the wind, it is neither good nor evil. It is only what men do with it that makes it one or the other.

"Were there sorcerers who used magic for dark purposes before the Great Purge?" Gaius went on, "Yes, there were, and they did terrible things. But there were also healers, as well as those who used magic for entirely benign purposes. My own teacher used magic to keep the milk from spoiling and to chase insects away from his books."

Arthur smiled faintly at the thought, "But the only magic I have seen has been used against me and the people of Camelot. Sorcerers who tried to kill my father or me, or, like Morgana and Morgause- tried to usurp the throne. Where have all the _good_ magic users been?"

"In hiding, or gone altogether to friendlier lands than Camelot. Or, like me, they gave up using magic altogether." Gaius looked away, his eyes full of old memories. It seemed to Arthur like the physician would rather not remember some of what he saw. He wondered, not for the first time, what Gaius's life must have been like before he came to Camelot.

"But why? Why did you stay?" For a heartbeat, Arthur felt like a little child asking why the sky was blue.

Gaius smiled sadly. "Your father was . . . unhinged by your mother's death, Arthur. He knew how to be a warrior and a king, but not how to be a father to a nursling. In his anger and despair, Uther seemed to forget that he finally had the son he had wanted for so long. Knowing that, I could not leave you alone. Giving up my own magic was a small sacrifice to help keep you safe."

Arthur could find no words to answer that. He had known for years that Gaius had been a sorcerer once upon a time, but he always thought that the physician had merely been a law-abiding citizen who gave up- what, a hobby?- when the laws against magic had passed. More and more, it was starting to sound like Gaius had given up a piece of himself for Arthur, as though he had cast away a hand for the sake of a mewling infant. How many of his servants had given so much of themselves for him? Gaius had given up his magic and Merlin. . . What of Merlin? "Merlin couldn't do that, too? Give up his magic?"

"Merlin could no more give up magic than you could give up breathing, Arthur. Remember when I told you, before . . ." Gaius trailed off, casting a glance down at his tea until he found the right words, "Before he left, that he had been born with his powers, and that he had used them even in his cradle?" Arthur nodded, "I have come to believe that Merlin is utterly different from anything anyone has encountered before. Magic seems to be wound through every fiber of his being. It is as much a part of him as blood and bone, and I doubt he _could_ give it up, unless it was somehow taken away or blocked from him. If that were they case," Gaius shivered, "I think it entirely possible that he might die."

Alarm flashed across the prince's face before he could stop it. "_Is_ there a way to block someone completely from magic?"

"Completely? I don't believe so, though your father did have a variety of . . . restraining devices made during the purge that kept sorcerers from fully reaching their magic," Gaius's eyes unfocused. He stared through Arthur for a moment, and then shook himself out of it. "Such devices kept them from completing spells, though. They didn't cut them off from it completely. Magic runs through the fabric of the world, Arthur. It is in the earth and the trees, the wind, the water, the rocks. There were stories of shackles or something like them that could cut off a man from the magic around him, but they were merely legends meant to frighten young sorcerers into behaving." A ghost of a smile flickered across the physician's face, "I'm sure you heard stories of a similar bent in your early weapons' training."

"A few," Arthur smirked. It faded quickly. He swirled the remnants of his tea around and around in the mug, watching the bits of leaves churn about in the tiny maelstrom. "You said you knew his mother when she was a child? Does Hunith have magic, too?"

"No," Gaius said, "At least, not in the way that most sorcerers do." He smiled at Arthur's confused glance. "Hunith came to the Isle of the Blessed to learn the Old Ways when she was a child. She had potential as a Seer, that is, someone who can see into the future, but it never truly manifested. There were certain things that, when she knew them deep down, they always came true, but it was not a gift that could be harnessed and used. It came and went, though it never led her astray. She foresaw the destruction of the Isle in time to flee, and she knew that sending Merlin to Camelot was the right thing to do."

"And what of his father? Was he a sorcerer?"

Gaius hesitated. "Yes," he said, the lone syllable stretched out like chilled honey, "His father was a sorcerer. Quite a powerful one, though not so much as Merlin. The rest of that story, however, is not mine to tell, Arthur. If you want to hear it, you must ask Merlin." Arthur got the feeling that the physician would hold to that, no matter how much he cajoled or demanded. Information normally flowed from the healer's lips like water in a stream, but sometimes he was a lockbox. In those cases, if he wanted to keep a secret, he kept it close and never told a soul.

The silence lengthened between them while Arthur tried to digest all that he had heard. Whatever he had been expecting when he asked Gaius about magic, it had not been this, like a door opening in his world to reveal a land of light and intrigue he had never dared to imagine before. "I made a mistake, Gaius, a terrible mistake, when I sent Merlin away. I see that now," he said quietly, "But I have no idea how to fix it. I have no idea where he is, or how to talk to him. . . "

"I think I might know a way," Gaius smiled and pressed to his feet, collecting an intricately carved wooden box just large enough to fit in his hands. He set it on the table, his gnarled fingers deftly touching a series of tarnished silver latches before the lid popped open. Without pulling anything else out, Gaius sorted through the contents for a few breaths before finding what he was looking for, then closed the lid. The latch caught with a faint click. "Lancelot brought this to me after returning from his last patrol," the physician laid a frayed feather between them, gray with black banding at the end, just like the merlin from before. "He told me it was braided into a lock of his horse's mane. Now, it's possible that it's from someone other than Merlin, but neither of us thought it likely."

Arthur gently picked up the feather, spinning it slowly between his fingers. "But what do I do with it?"

"Birds can be messengers, Arthur, and I think it likely that the one you dealt with today is one that Merlin enchanted. I think you can figure out the rest."

"How do I know it's not a trick of Morgana's?" he gave Gaius a skeptical look. He wanted the bird to be Merlin's as much as the physician did, but he refused to let hope cloud his judgment more than it needed to.

"Different magics feel different. This does not feel like one of Morgana's ploys to me. She lacks the gift of subtlety. Besides. She is a priestess of the Morrigan, and falcons and ravens don't tend to get along," Gaius said, "You'll just have to summon up a bit of faith, Arthur."

"Right," he said before pushing his chair back and turning to head for the door, still idly spinning the feather between his fingers. He opened the door without seeing it, lost in thought as he was. He turned back to Gaius. "Men sacrifice many things to be in the service of royalty. You gave up your magic. And Merlin. . . Merlin gave up his freedom for my sake, didn't he?"

Gaius nodded solemnly, "Yes, Arthur, he did."

"But why? Why would he make such a sacrifice for me? What did I do to earn such loyalty?" The feather stopped its spinning. In Arthur's eyes was the light of realization, one of the thousand little epiphanies a boy makes on the road to manhood.

"The fact that you asked that question at all may be part of your answer, Sire."

Arthur nodded, his brow furrowing as he pondered the healer's answer. He closed the door quietly behind him and set off for his chambers, ignoring the passages around him as his whirling thoughts finally crystallized into a solid conclusion. _'If my knights and my servants are willing to sacrifice so much for love of me, then it must be my life's work to earn that love.'_


	7. Epilogue

_A/N: A big Thank You! again to those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. It makes me super happy. :-) Look for the first part of the next story, 'Into the Darkened Wood' in about a week!_

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It was hard to see his father like this, so faded and broken, so unlike the man who had lifted a kingdom from its knees. Harder still to say the things that needed saying. Arthur fidgeted, adjusting this item or that in Uther's room, fiddling with the curtains, making sure the windows would not slam shut in an errant breeze, refilling the wine glass again. Through it all, his father said not a word. He sat in his chair simply staring out the window. Arthur wondered what- if anything- was going through his mind.

He sat down heavily across from Uther and watched the man for a time, sorting through his thoughts, trying to determine what to say and how. How did a son tell his father he was prepared to undo the work of nearly thirty years for the sake of a servant? How did one tell a king he was wrong?

"Father?" he began softly, "Can you hear me?" There was no response from the king. Arthur sighed but kept his chin up. "I want you to know that I have always had great respect for you. You have taught me so much about what it means to be a prince- and a king. I would not be who I am today without you, but. . . " he trailed off, then found the words again, "All I wanted was for you to be proud of me, Father, but no matter what I did, I never seemed to be what you wanted me to be. Now I have realized that that was not the sort of man- the sort of king- I was meant to be. You were strong, but the people feared you. I don't want my people to be afraid of me." Uther did not react. His eyes remained fixed on the window. Arthur wet his lips before he went on. "I cannot rule as you did, father, with sword and fire. I want a just kingdom where everyone is equal, and if the price I pay is your disappointment in me, then that is the price I will pay.

"I know that in your day, there were many who abused magic and did terrible things, but I see now that those deeds were not justification for the things that we did to them. I know you were in a dark place after Mother died, but. . . What was done to the Druids, and to anyone who showed the slightest bit of magic, Father, it wasn't right. It was not just. They struck at us out of fear and hatred. It was a reflection of what we gave them. For all her faults, Morgana responded out of the same kind of fear. She must have believed that you would execute her for having magic. I think that fear and bitterness is what turned her against us. That is not what I want for the future of Camelot, Father." There was still no response from the king. Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. Here were words he never thought would come from his lips. He wished the circumstances were better. "I know I cannot completely rescind the laws against magic while you live, but I don't have to enforce them. You would disagree with me. You would probably lock me in the dungeons for saying this, but I have to do what I feel is right, and this feels right, Father. It feels just, and it feels like the proper path forward."

He searched his father's face for any sign that Uther had heard or understood what he had said, but save for a slight furrowing of his brow, the king had no response. "Father? Can you hear me? Do you even know I'm here?" Arthur sighed. "I suppose that's that, then. Now I have a royal decree to write, and an apology to make. I will see you tomorrow." He rolled to his feet and strode toward the door, pausing for a moment to look back at Uther. He had not moved. Arthur had not expected him to. Without a second glance back, the prince turned on a heel and swiftly walked back to his chambers.

It was late afternoon before he found himself at work on the missive that would go who-knew-where on the wings of a falcon. After a lifetime of being told that a prince apologizes for nothing, he had a hard time finding the proper words. He had half a mind to ask Guinevere at one point, but dismissed the notion. Merlin would know the difference, and Arthur needed to learn to do his own dirty work, no matter how awkward he felt about owning up to a foolish decision. When he had a last crafted the proper message onto the scrap of parchment, he crossed to the window where the little merlin perched.

"All right, bird," he addressed the creature. It stared back at him, its eyes full of the wilderness. "I know you're _his_ bird- his little spy- so you might as well come over here so we can get this done with, all right?" Arthur felt a thousand kinds of idiotic for talking to a bird as though it were a wayward servant, but his gut told him it was the right thing to do. Finally, the bird approached, sidling toward him in that awkward bird fashion until he quickly caught hold of it.

In his hands, the merlin was oddly docile, staying perfectly still, the rapid thrumming of its heartbeat strong under his thumb. He gave in to the childish urge to stroke the pale feathers, taking a strange delight in holding such a wild creature in his own two hands. Then he shook himself out of it, gently tying the message around the bird's leg before setting it back on the ledge.

"Go on now," he urged, "Go find him. Help me bring Merlin back."

For a long moment, Arthur feared the bird would stay where it was, and the effort would be wasted, leaving him to figure out some other way of finding his servant- his friend.

Then the merlin spread it wings and flew.


End file.
